


Stories within a Story

by Blue_Sunshine



Series: The Desert Storm [14]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:26:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21552994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Sunshine/pseuds/Blue_Sunshine
Summary: This work is a collection of small, prompt based vignettes that take place within the Desert Storm series.The content involved will have some, but not a major impact on the plot of the Desert Storm series.You may propose SHORT prompts in the comments, and I'll see what I can do.
Series: The Desert Storm [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1311746
Comments: 186
Kudos: 1741





	1. Chapter 1

This work will be posted on 11/28/2019 as a holiday bonus.

The content involved may have some, but not a significant, impact on the plot of The Desert Storm Series.

Post SHORT prompts in the comments section of Chapter 1 and I'll see what I can do!


	2. The Red Bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: The Red Bird

“You think you’d learn.” Beru scolds, hands brisk and cool as she smears japoor butter across his sunburnt face.

The jar at his hovel had been empty. He hadn’t realized he was running out.

It takes two tries, but he finally manages words. “It was an accident.” He rasps apologetically. It had been more important, to check on them than to make the long trek into Mos Eisley. His skin would heal.

Beru tsks him and keeps smeary the greasy salve into his skin. It stings, but he doesn’t complain. A damp hand finds it’s way o his knee, and Ben looks away from the gleam of light on golden hair, from the soft song Beru’s begun to hum, to find Luke clinging to his pant’s leg, offering Ben his no-spill cup of blue milk. Ben gently nudges the cup back, and the toddler pushes, insistent.

“No, thank you, Luke.” Ben manages haltingly, as the little boy stares at him with desert sky blue eyes, a blazing star of innocence and _curious-help-confused_ in the Force. He doesn’t know why Ben is hurt, or how, but the toddler can feel it, and does what the innocent do – tries to be kind.

The toddler sucks on his lower lip and vanishes back under the table.

“Give me your hands.”

“It’s fine.” Ben equivocates. Beru gives him a short look and takes his hands.

“Ben.” She sighs, turning them over. His cuticles are splitting, he knows, and the one hand is a welt of bruises and scabs from an altercation with a small womp rat wherein the womp rat had managed to bite him. “A person needs their hands you know.” She says.

“They can be replaced.” Ben replies, thinking of Anakin. He was _always_ thinking of Anakin.

Beru pauses, surprised, and a smile flickers across her face at the quick retort. “As you like.” She says. “But good luck on that around these parts, Ben Kenobi. A person needs their hands.” She repeats for good measure.

“For what?” Ben inquires, distantly curious as to why it seems so important to her, as she steps away to the kitchen for a moment. Luke appears at his knee again, this time holding out – Ben isn’t sure what it’s supposed to be. The boy has clearly chewed on it at some point, and it’s a sort of mushy mess of red cloth and copper thread, with one yellow button for an eye. Ben thinks it’s supposed to be a bird, but the seam is coming undone.

Luke pushes it into his hands, and Ben tugs on the copper thread holding it together, pulling the seam back together. The toy could be fixed, he supposes.

Beru startles him when she takes his hands again, and he drops the toy. Luke huffs, a perfect imitation of his aunt, picks it up, and presses it back int Ben’s free hand, while Beru – judging by the sting – applies anti-sep to his scabs, and precious dab of bacta.

“For doing good work.” Beru replies – Ben has nearly forgotten his question already - his bloodied hand held between her healing own.

He can’t look at her, so he looks down at the red bird, and Lukes hopeful eyes, and plucks at the fraying seam.

It could be fixed.

“Master?”

Color seems to fade from the dream, and time slows, and Ben looks up to see Obi-Wan standing in the archway, looking confused. “This is different.” The boy says carefully, trying to catch details as they fade away.

“I’m not having a nightmare.” Ben replies, no longer held fast by the memory.

“Yeah.” Obi-Wan nods with small smile. “Neither am I.”

~*~

Anakin can hear his breathing echo off the metal walls around him, different than the way it sounded against the subterranean tunnels of his and Amu’s berth beneath Gardulla’s palace. Amu is crying, water spilling down her face.

He’s seen Amu cry before, but not like this. She’s holding him too tight, salt water slipping into his hair, and Anakin can feel the storm inside her chest, the thunder of her heart behind his.

Amu’s crying, but she’s not in pain, or afraid, or _hungry_ - _exhausted_ - _weak_.

Anakin tries to catch the water, but it just makes his hands damp and disappears, and he doesn’t know what to do. _Don’t waste water_ – that was _law_. He’s seen Amavikka whipped for stealing a drink. Gardulla had her majordomo beat Old Chigg to death when he was supposed to be minding the banthas and the banthas knocked over the trough, spilling wasted back into the sands, gone to steam almost faster than it could turn damp.

Amu’s crying, and she’s wasting water, and she’s holding him too tight, but she feels like wings made of sunlight, unfurling for the first time, sweeping away all the bad things around them, like warmth and an exhilarating, almost terrifying rush of air, of falling, or rising.

He’ll learn to know that feeling is _relief_. The life-giving kind. Like finding a spring in the deep desert, or running blind through the gale of a sandstorm, and a cave opening way before you. Like a chain being broken, and setting you free.

Amu cries for a long time, and then she takes him to explore the new ship – it’s not _new_ , but Ani’s never been here before – and find him something to eat.

The desert man comes back, and he gives Amu _money_. He feels weird, like he’s too heavy for the world, and out of place, and electrified, full of crackling energy, and he feels…afraid, and lost, and sad.

They go to the market, and Amu lets him pick fruit, and the desert man buy candies and Anakin hopes he’ll let him have one. Amu’s afraid of him, and he’s afraid of Amu, and they are both trying not to be. It’s silly. Can’t they _tell_?

Ani isn’t sure he knows what Amu means, when she tells him they’re free now. He just knows that they don’t have to go back to Gardulla. They’re going to go with Ben – the desert man, he has a name, and it’s Ben, and Amu says he’s _not_ Depur. But he’s not Amavikka either – and Ani figures that that’s okay. Anywhere is better than back with Gardulla, who made Amu go out in the storm, and didn’t let her come back inside until her skin was bleeding, and who makes Amu mist her so her skin is always damp and gleaming, but had her Majordomo threaten to drown him when he couldn’t help himself and kept telling Amu that he was thirsty. He’d held Ani’s face in a basin of water until he felt like a fire was going to eat him from the inside and Amu had begged and begged until they let him up. Ani learned to say less, after that, and never, ever, where Depur could hear him.

Anakin’s soft and heavy against his Amu’s shoulder when they go back to the new ship, and the second sun is low. Ani blinks tiredly, and for a moment the ship that will take them away from here, into the blue sky, past the veil of black and white, it isn’t a ship at all.

The scuffed paint gleams, and the shadows shift, and to little Anakin _Ekkreth_ – He Who Walks the Sky and Becomes the Wind – it’s a waiting, watchful bird, looming between the sands and the horizon.

A red bird.

~*~

Jax snuggles against Anakin, fighting sleep, listening to the evening breeze clatter reed-chimes hung outside windows, watching sparks from the fire pit spiral up and blur into stars.

Shili was…colorful. It wasn’t like Coruscant, which was chaotic and noisy and overwhelming, a constant pressing crush of noise, of too many people packed in. The noise here wasn’t so many rushing, blurring, shouting whispers so much as it was music – not _pretty_ music, but music. It hurt less and held less hurt, less struggle, less urgency. It didn’t dig at him, it just…drifted.

He misses home. Home was quiet, a village on an island in an ocean, and he knew every voice in his head and every face those voices belonged to and the spaces inside his head where…simple.

At least before he got bigger and understood more and started _talking_ about the things he knew that no one else was supposed to.

Jax learned his lesson about talking.

Anakin helped quiet the world. He was overwhelming too, sometimes, but it was easier to bear Anakin than it was to bear _everything_. Anakin blotted all else out, and Shmi-maybe-Mama could wrap _her_ quiet up around him, and between the two of them, sometimes Jax could just _think_ , and find only his own thoughts in his head.

Warmth shifts, and Jax can’t sometimes tell when it’s real or when it’s in the Force, but a gentle hand cards through his hair with a touch of _shimmering-sands-bedrock_ that is Shmi-maybe-Mama. She brushes her fingers through his hair, and then Anakins.

“Are you awake?” She asks softly, voice warm and fond and Jax wishes he could capture the sound, and hold onto it forever.

Jax nods, but Anakin mumbles incoherently.

“ _Ani_.” His mother prods. “Come with me a little while, and we can all go to bed.”

“Nnn.” The boy clings to Jax, and the shawl wrapped around their shoulders. They aren’t the only ones still out by the fires, but most of the others are asleep on the cushions. It wouldn’t be the first time the boys slept under Shili’s stars either. “I’m a’ready _asleep_ , Amu.”

“You are not.” She chuckles, and scoops them up. Jax startles, clinging to her, and Anakin squeaks, suddenly wide awake.

“Amu!”

“Are you awake now?” She teases, almost nose to nose with him.

“ _Yes_.” Anakin replies grumpily, and Jax grins.

“Good.” His mother replies simply.

She sets them down and takes their hands in hers, and the boys glance at each other, stumbling a little as they walk away from the circle of fires and lanterns and drums and onto a walking trail, cutting through the grass. The colors of the grass are muted, but the white undersides all but glow under the full moons.

Anakin presses a hand to his chest, and then his lips, and then lifts it towards the sky. Jax reaches out with a question, curious.

“It’s Ar-Amu.” Anakin says, pointing to the moons.

Shmi glances down between the boys – whom she thinks of as her boys – and up at the moons.

‘ _From Tatooine_?’ Jax hesitates. ‘ _We are not on Tatooine_.’

“She’s not _just_ on Tatooine.” Anakin says aloud. “Right, Amu?” He looks up to her for answers, and his eyes glitter, reflecting stars. Jax doesn’t think they’re the same stars as those above them now.

“Ar-Amu is not anchored in stone and solar radiation.” She-Who-Knows-The-Way replies. “She is part of us, and follows wherever we go. So yes, when we look at the moon, they may not be the same moons, but we know – we look to Ar-Amu.”

Shmi walks them down to the dry riverbed, where the mud cracks and flakes beneath their feet, and smooth, flat-edges stones shine dully. She tells the to choose a stone, and Anakin immediately picks the biggest one he can see.

“One that can be carried, Ani.” His mother smiles. Anakin pouts and grumbles, and takes Jax’s hand, so they can look more carefully together. Anakin likes the shiny ones, but Jax is more interested in the shapes. They finally agree on a flat, wedge-shaped piece of rock with bands of gleaming dark mica and reflective quarts ribboning through pink stone. Together the boys pry it out of the mud, Anakin getting frustrated when it refused to give way under their finger and just yanking it up with an angry stomp and the Force. He also loosens all the stones they’re standing on, and Jax falls over.

‘ _Ow_!’

‘ _Sorry_.’

They carry it back to Shmi, who takes it while they climb back out of the riverbed, her presence clear and focused with purpose that keeps both boys from asking questions. They’ve both shaken off sleep, and watch the grass ripple, and a few streaking meteorites blaze across the sky as the walk.

“Amu, we’re not supposed to go into the high grasses.” Anakin says uncertainly, when she takes them off the path, and the fronds rise above all their heads.

“One cannot always follow the paths others have laid before them, Ani, Jax.” She says, but stops, looking to them both expectantly. If they will not go, she will not make them. Anakin and Jax share a look, and then nod back at her, stepping cautiously forward, trusting each other, and the Force, and Ar-Amu watching over them.

She does not take them far, and they burrow a small opening in the grass, kneeling down around where she lowers the stone.

She looks at them both, and reaches out to briefly cup their cheeks in her hands, offering a sweet Skywalker smile. Then she draws her hands back, and looks to Jax.

“There is no child born who is not Ar-Amu’s child.” She says. “You are not born of my blood, but I would name you. Will you allow me?” She asks, and Jax can see the world spin, and the stars rain down, and the sun rise, blood on tattered skirts, and the echo of screaming, and salt, and no-life-is-promised and “Don’t waste the water. Some are better born dead than in bondage.” –

There was no little girl. But years later there was a little boy. And now, perhaps, another. She’s raised many, but named only one.

And now she wants to name _him_.

_I’m a person and my name is Anakin_!

Jax blinks, and Shmi Skywalker is still waiting.

Anakin is all coiled excitement beside him, his mind shouting _brother-brother-brother_.

But Shmi is patient.

Jax Pavan has a name, but it was written in flimsiplast and electrostatic and it hadn’t meant all that much, when those who gave it to him wished they hadn’t, in the end. (Because it was a name he was meant to fit, not a name meant to fit him. And he didn’t fit, he burst at the edges and bled through the fabric of the world and they thought it was wrong – what was _wrong with him_ -)

Jax nods, and Anakin cheers, and Shmi unfurls against the world with a simple, brilliant joy, leaning forward to kiss his brow.

Shmi draws a small cloth pouch from the sling at her waist, opening it to reveal slick red ochre. Anakin holds out his hands and Jax can see a sunset over whifting dunes, a whipping wind not yet a storm ,and moonrise. Shmi holding an infant to her chest, and carrying a broken tile into the edge of the desert, and on it are her handprints, and his, and the names which Depur can never take from them, and the desert takes it in, and remembers, as the stone is swallowed by sand.

She smears Anakin’s hands with it, and then her own, and Jax lays his hands in theirs, until they’re coated in red, sticky and slick.

“Then I name you Jax Skywalker, Ji-Kest Ekkreth; He Who Catches Stars.” Shmi murmurs.

They press their hands onto the stone, and more than stain sinks in.

_Ji-Kest, Ji-Kest Ekkreth_.

Anakin hugs him tightly, fierce and smothering and Jax laughs, because they’re so happy, they are all so _happy_.

Moonlight catches in his eyes, and before they leave it in the grasses in the wilds of a world far from where the tradition was born, Jax looks at handprints on stone, and sees red birds taking flight in the flash of a storm.

And then they’re gone.

They wash their hands in a stream on their way back to the village, and Shmi splashes her sons in water, and delights that each drop spilled into soft soil doesn’t fill her with dread. The boys lay down in their cots that night still slightly damp, some of the stain still in their skin, and Shmi kisses them both on the brow, and Jax almost, _almost_ speaks.

‘ _Mama_.’

‘ _My boys_.’ She thinks. ‘ _My sons_.’ And Jax _loves_ her, because he doesn’t have to speak at all.

~*~

“I’m…concerned.” Obi-Wan says, frowning at the holo-com. “My master’s being…weird.”

“Padawan Kenobi! Padawan Obi-Wan!” Obi-Wan pauses, waiting for the younglings racing up to him to reach him, breathless and eager, and smooths out his expression, lest they think something’s wrong. “Is the Room of A Thousand Fountains going to be open today?”

“Unfortunately not.” Obi-Wan replies patiently, having been the subject of several such inquiries. “It’s still under maintenance.”

“But-“

“I’m afraid it’s going to take as long as it will take.” Obi-Wan says. “This is why we don’t turn public water systems into chemistry experiments.”

The younglings sigh. “Okay. Thank you, Padawan Kenobi.” They dash off much more subdued, and Obi-Wan returns to his call.

“Stop making that face - I was serious!” He scolds. Siri rolls her eyes, and Sian – the image flickered a little, the kinks in his wrist-comm till not quite worked out on the multi-source reception – offer him an amused smirk.

“ _Obi-Wan, your master is always_ weird.”

“He is not.” Obi-Wan protests, defending Master Ben’s dignity.

“ _You just don’t notice because you’re practically one and the same_.” Siri mutters.

“ _Obi-Wan’s isn’t that bad_.” Sian says. “ _So what’s he doing that has you so concerned_?”

“Honestly….” Obi-Wan hesitates, glancing up and down the corridor. “I think he’s burning things.”

“ _As in – setting property on fire_?” They both blink, and Obi-Wan wishes Bant had answered the call, or Tsui, but reception to Ossus was intermittent, and according to Siri, Tsui was teaching a class. Bant would be more sympathetic and less incredulous, and Tsui wouldn’t have given him nearly as much grief.

“I don’t know. But his robes smell like plasma-carbon and I can’t eat in our quarters without tasting scorched dust. He keeps telling me not to worry about it.”

“ _Obi-Wan Kenobi, not worry? It’s like he doesn’t know you at all_.”

“That’s not helpful, Sian.” Obi-Wan remarks dryly.

“ _But it’s funny_.”

“If I wanted to be mocked I’d go to Quinlan.”

“ _Quinlan would tell you to outmatch your master by setting bigger fires_.”

Which is why Obi-Wan didn’t go to Quinlan. Besides, Quinlan was…distant lately. Contemplative. Spending a lot of time in sealed training chambers.

“ _You did tell him he needed to find a hobby, didn’t you? Maybe he’s found one_.”

“If it’s just a hobby, why won’t he tell me? He’s being secretive.” Obi-Wan complains, well aware that he’s whining just a bit.

“ _Master Ben Naasade, being secretive? It’s like_ you _don’t know_ him _at all_.” Siri snarks.

“My master keeps secrets.” Obi-Wan grumbles. “He’s not secretive.”

“ _In what world does that make any sense whatsoever? Did that make sense to you, Sian_?”

“ _Does it have to? It makes sense to Obi-Wan_.” The devaronian shrugs. Really, Obi-Wan’s friends are the worst. “ _And he’s the one who has to live with it_.”

He reaches his quarters and presses the door key, taking a few long breathes before he has to go in, because the burnt-dust smell really does sting in his sinuses.

“ _Really though, Obi-Wan. Your Master is a functioning adult, one capable enough to be in charge of the entire Temple. Maybe you should focus elsewhere_?” Siri says.

Obi-Wan shoots the holo-comm a dirty look and bites his cheek, because he has somewhere else to focus. He has, in fact, _seven_ self-study courses to focus on, and he doesn’t want to focus on them _right this minute_. Honestly, this had to be a punishment. Master Windu was trying to make his brain melt out of his ears. Six months. Only six months to reach satisfactory comprehension on _seven_ Senior Padawan prerequisite courses. Four of which were, individually, _each_ meant to take a full year of lessons. And Obi-Wan has never had the best marks when compared to his peers.

He wishes his master gave the tests. His master didn’t go easy on him, but at least Obi-Wan knew what was expected on that front. He hadn’t a clue what sort of expectations his new tutors had, and it was stressing him out.

He sighs frustratedly and stalks inside his quarters, sensing his Master was currenty elsewhere, and comes to a belated pause when he crosses through the living area.

There’s a parcel on the table.

There’s a parcel on the table, and a kettle on the warmer which Obi-Wan can smell is one their more expensive spiced blends, and everything has been meticulously cleaned, which Obi-Wan knows, because he takes a deep breath and his nose doesn’t sting with the faintest trace of carbon.

“ _Christophsis to Obi-Wan, hello? You’re spacing out_.” Siri says.

“A moment.” Obi-Wan demurs, stepping over to the table. Yup, the parcel has his name on it, in his master’s sprawling script.

“ _Ooh, is that a present_?” Sian inquires, when it’s in range of the holo-cast. “ _Obi-Wan, is it your life-day_?”

He actually has to check the chrono to answer that, and yes, it is, in fact, his life-day. He’ll have to call Anakin later, to celebrate. Sixteen and six.

Obi-Wan reaches for the parcel and then pauses, battling a tug of war of shallow guilt and selfishness.

“Can I comm you back?” He asks his friends. Presents weren’t a life-day tradition in the temple, and Obi-Wan had had very few in his life. Most were of practical value. He had the sneaking suspicion that this wasn’t one of those. This would be the first real _present_ from his master, and… he wanted to keep it for himself, at least for a moment.

“Like we’d say no?” Siri replies. “Enjoy your present, Obi-Wan.”

“My master’s first gift to me was a rock.” Sian says. “It’s a Force-Sensitive rock, but, you know.” She shrugs.

“Is that…common?” Obi-Wan inquires. He hadn’t heard of that being tradition, but… “My master once said the first thing his master ever gave _him_ was a river-stone.”

Sian’s brows lift at that, and then she tilts her head thoughtfully. “Huh.” She says, and then blinks, as if filing something away in her head. “Maybe it’s an inside joke. I bet yours is a tea-cup though. Let me know if I’m right.”

“Will do.” Obi-Wan promises, and she signs off.

Obi-Wan slides down onto the couch and puts the parcel in his lap. It’s small, but somewhat weighted, and he peels back the paper carefully.

It’s not a teacup.

It’s an open-winged bird, small enough to fit in his palm, made of glass. The edges are finely detailed – feathers and beak and tail – but the center is smooth, revealing swirling rich hues of red and amber. What strikes him, however, holding it, was the _feeling_.

“Oh, master.” Obi-Wan murmurs, cradling the glass bird in his hands.

_Warmth-Care- **Love**_ suffuses every grain of melted sand (of course, Obi-Wan think ridiculously, his master made it himself, by superheating the tiny grains of crystal that continually frustrated the young padawan) that made up the small statuette in potent impressions, so much so that he can almost see the glow and feel the heat.

Obi-Wan doesn’t know how long he sits there, _basking_ , before a teacup is placed in front of him, and he startles, looking up, to find Master Ben looking down with amused fondness. “You didn’t even pour yourself any of the tea I made for you.” He tuts, and Obi-Wan has no idea when he even entered their quarters.

Obi-Wan surges off the couch and draws the man into a hug, fierce and grateful for his existence. “Thank you, Master.”

“It’s only tea.” Master Ben chuckles, resting his cheek on Obi-Wan’s head, wrapping his arms around the teenagers shoulders. Obi-Wan barks a huff of laughter and shakes his head at the older man’s deliberate obtuseness.

His master sighs softly into his hair, and Obi-Wan can feel the smile there.

“You are most welcome, padawan.”

Jedi don’t know fathers or brothers, not like others would, but Obi-Wan can say for certain that he is proud to be raised by this man, that he would be – _is_ – honored to be his family, and that he loves him too.


	3. MANDALORIAN

Ben loves the Temple. It was where he was raised, it was where he raised Anakin, it was home, but there were times…. And he loathes to admit it…. but there were times he almost missed Tatooine.

Which feels like it’s own brand of madness, given what drove him there and the general misery of his life at the time, but… Tatooine had been stark, and simple, and there had been moments, when he was meditating on the ridge above the Dune Sea, under the brilliant glow of stars and the first rays of the rising sun where he could almost glimpse it – The Force, whole and unimaginable and without time, where everything he had lost and everything he had loved seemed to come back to him, where he had found _acceptance_ , and the promise that all was not without hope.

Some days that sensation is like an itch under his skin, and he tempers it by slipping out into one of the rare few courtyards around the Tempe and basking in the first touch of warmth from a real sunrise, which the Temple, for all it’s effort, could not truly imitate.

He doesn’t both to open his eyes from his light trance when he can feel Mace Windu slip out to join him, but after a few minutes of staring, well… the itch under his skin fades, and the other Master’s consternation and intense scrutiny is _distracting_.

“Can I help you, Master Windu?” Ben inquires patiently.

Mace Windu feels a tad regretful to have drawn Naasade out of his meditation. When he had sensed his presence on his walk through the Temple, he had been..curiouse, both at the early hour and the location, and as he was endeavoring to be more friendly with the man, he had thought to step out and say hello.

He had stepped out, but let the words lie. Even with most himself hidden behind impressive if not downright frightening shields, Naasade was an intense focus in the Force, and all of what Mace knew of him only made him seem more surreal, larger than life.

Mace had stepped out and seen such a look of serenity on the other mans face and – he’d been surprised, honestly. Naasade was almost always amicable and courteous, but rarely was he actually at _ease_. Morning sun had turned his cinnamon hair a burning rose-gold, gleaming off the edges of his armor and making him seem to bleed and blend into the burning horizon, both bigger than the world and at the same time making him seem like he might simply vanish in a slip of light, as if he weren’t ever really there.

It was disconcerting.

Mace eyes the suns painted on the man’s armor – armor which, impressive as it was, made him uneasy, made Naasade seem so much more like a soldier….and so much less like a Jedi.

Mace frowns, steeping forward at the quiet invitation to join Naasade on the stone bench and enjoy the touch of sun. “You were raised by Qui-Gon Jinn.” Mace states.

“I was.” Ben nods, eyes peeking open and seeming so very _blue_ at the moment, and vibrant.

“What I can’t fathom is when and where the padawan of Qui-Gon Jinn turns Mandalorian.” Mace says honestly, as it had been nagging at the back of his mind. Naasade was so clearly a jedi – but his favor for Mandalorian culture was more than a cover, more than a façade, unlike the rumor of his being a former Shadow.

Ben smirks faintly, and there is something sad about that look. There is almost always something sad in Naasade’s looks, something wistful. If you’re looking for it.

“I never did consider what Qui-Gon might have thought about it.” He admits. “I didn’t embrace the culture until…long after his passing, though my first taste of Mandalore came under his tutelage.”

Mace tries not to frown and sigh, because Naasade was an expert at saying just enough to generate more questions, and very little answers. The other mans smirk broadens, as if he can sense Mace’s frustration.

“I fell in love with a daughter of Mandalore. I would – I would have left the Order to be with her, had she asked. Attachment has long been my failing.” The other man says, surprising Mace by volunteering such information so freely. “And she loved me too much to ask.”

Mace swallows, but he has nothing to say to that, nothing to offer, to something so beyond his experience.

“But I did not find Mandalore through her love. In fact, I imagine she would be much disappointed to see me in armor now, knowing all it represents.” He murmurs quietly, running a hand over his vambrace. “She never did approve of violence, and I am… I am very good at.”

Mace nods quietly, feeling the conversation now is less about his question and more about what Ben needs to say. “I found Mandalore through war. Through the men I fought beside and the need for there to be something in war other than horror.”

“Is there?” Mace asks, disturbed by the thought. War, in his opinion, was deplorable, and it horrified him. But like Naasade, he supposes, he was very good at it. He had developed one of the most premier combat forms in the Temple, after all.

Ben looks at him, blue-grey eyes deep and wise the faintest bit amused. “There can be.” He says. “There is a…philosophy, in Mandalore; As flowers are grown by rain, so is the soul grown by war. From suffering comes compassion, from cruelty; mercy, from violence; peace. We are not born when we come into this world. We are born when we learn who we are, and we can only learn by being tested. Adversity is the crucible, honor is the way, and enlightenment the reward.”

Mace gapes a little. “That’s – “ He shakes his head, finding so much deeply aberrant with that.

“Not the Jedi way?” Ben inquires. “No. But it is not _wrong_. There is much we learn through introspection and self-awareness, through quiet and internal reflection. But there is much more you learn in the face of wrath and pain and destruction. Things that can not be learned in peace. Things you can only learn about yourself when you are forced to face the trial of them.” The older jedi pauses, thinking. “A person who has never missed a meal a day in their life may _believe_ that hunger is appalling. That no matter one’s circumstances, they should not go hungry. But a person who has starved _knows_ it. Their ideals may seem alike, but those two perspectives are _not_ the same.”

Mace tries to reconcile that, quiet for a few minutes, but he struggles with the idea that suffering is somehow necessary, or noble. To him, it isn’t. Suffering is just suffering. But perhaps, he is missing the point. The point is not that one needs to suffer. The point, he thinks, is that those who _are_ suffering need something to hold on to to pull through it. That the idea that their suffering serves them a purpose eases the horror of it. Mandalore, for much of it’s history, was a system rife with conflict and struggle, even at the height of it’s power. History has taught them that their struggles have made them who they are. They honor that, and there is nothing wrong with that, for all that he believes that none should idealize war.

“But Mandalore is not all about war, in spite of their reputation, you know.” Naasade says, again as if reading his thoughts, though Mace is certain the other man isn’t. He is merely…perceptive, and Mace is once again reminded that this man knows him, better, perhaps, than he knows himself. Of the two of them, Ben has known him longer, oddly enough. “ _Shereshoy_ , that is, the ideal of Mandalorian culture, the essence of it, is passion, expression, a lust for _life_ ; the enjoyment of each day and the determination to seek and grab every possible experience, as well as surviving to see the next day - hanging onto life and relishing it.”

Mace has trouble reconciling something so celebratory with his impression of the cold, hard repute of Mandalorian Warriors, but – Ben, he thinks, he can reconcile that philosophy with Ben.

Ben perhaps does not so celebrate his own life, but he carries that philosophy with him, and Mace has seen him invoke that eagerness and passion in those around him, that drive to make the most of every moment, to do more, be more, and thrive with what they are given.

His padawan in particular.

“So how… does the armor come into it? As I understand it, you have to swear vows to Mandalore to have the right to wear beskar.” Mace inquires, trying not to be accusatory, but… well, vows of fealty weren’t exactly in line with Jedi vows of neutrality.

Ben smiles. “That’s true. _Mand’alor_ Fett has, however, made an allowance for Jedi in the Mandalorian faith. Traditional vows are Education and Armor, Self-Defense, our Tribe, our Language, our Leader.” He explains. “In our case, he allowed us to swear to our Order, and to the Force, in place of a House and Clan and in place of the _Mand’alor’s_ authority.”

“That sounds like a risky thing for him to have done, in his position.”

Ben blinks, and then smiles. “Mace, he’s _Mandalorian_. What’s life without a little risk?”

~*~

Ben goes through the motions of making tea while Jango Fett airs his grievances over the comm Ben left on the table, venting in a way, no doubt, he dare not to in Duke Kryze’s presence. Jango may be King, but Ben had grasped that there was a debt a Jango owed the other man that made him deferential, in a way, to the fact that Kryze had ruled Mandalore and _ruled it well_ , in his absence. Jango was respectful of that. To say nothing of the fact that half of Jango’s grievances where with his still slightly murderous newly adopted teenager, and he wasn’t going to air those to the girl’s biological father.

“ – _and I swear,_ vod _, if the kid can’t learn to keep her god-damned mouth shut during negotiations, I’ll lock in her a thrice-damned crate again the next time we have to meet with_ -“

Ben startles, fumbles with the teapot, and ends up burning himself, as it clatters to the floor and splashes scalding water across his feet. “Son of a karking Hutt!” Ben swears, lurching back. “Fuck.”

Jango stops, frowning into the void on Ben’s end of the comm, as he’s too far away for the holo-image to register him. “ _Jetii_?”

“I’m fine.” Ben calls out, grabbing a towlette to sop up the water on the floor, and hissing at the scalds on his feet before taking a breathe and Forcing the pain away.

“ _You know, I get a lot of blame for your_ verdibir’s _language considering what just came out of your mouth_.” Jango mutters, arms crossed.

“I hardly swear like that in his presence.” Ben huffs, setting the kettle back on the counter and taking his cup into the living area, so he can settle at the table and Jango can actually see him. “Unlike some.”

Jango lifts a brow, and then shrugs, because he’s hardly going to dispute that. He does eye Ben with a narrow, suspicious look, however, before something lights in his eyes and he glances away, smirking a little. Ben blinks a few times, because that look is so like Captain Rex it hurts.

But Captain Rex had never called him _vod_. At least, never directly.

 _Brother_.

But Alpha-17 had, talking into the dark between their cells after Ventress had tortured them both. And Cody had, usually growling it out angrily, muttering beneath his breath as he hoisted Ben to his feet and dragged him to medical.

He’d overhead Boil and Waxer referring to him as _vod’bevod_ once, _brother of brothers_ , recounting his rather rash and futile if noble attempt to shield a little girl from a _canon_ with his body.

Trapper had acknowledged him as one too, trapped in their crashed gunship together.

 _“Trapper, I’m sorry about your vod.”_ Ben had muttered in the hot, dusty, death-rank wreckage.

“ _You can say ‘our’ vod, sir. M’not pretendin’ anything_.” Trapper had slurred back.

Then, of course, had been the salute. _Vode An_ , they’d started calling out, every time he sent them out, every time they deployed, and he was included in that. _Brother’s All_.

Cody had blushed the first time Ben had called him _vod_ back.

“ _Did I lose you_?” Jango inquires, and Ben blinks to realize he has quite rudely zoned out. He offers the other man a hesitant smile.

“Not at all, _vod_.” Ben murmurs.

Fett, it seems, is very much like Cody too.

Ben smiles, while Fett tries to glower to regain his composure, and Ben thinks that there is much he missed in his last life, and much he missed about it, but that he can fully embrace Mandalore in this one is something he is grateful for. It gave him something to hold to when being a Jedi was not enough - or was too much.

Obi-Wan had asked him if he ever regretted that they could not visit Mandalore more often, but Ben had shaken his head. "Mandalore is not a place, Obi-Wan. Mandalore is a people." As it was, and as it always had been. And for Ben, people had always been more home to him than any place he'd even been.

" _Honestly, how to I discipline her_?" Fett draws the conversation back around to his very troublesome and dangerous teenager. " _Threats of violence don't exactly phase her_."

"The next time she displeases you, take her out for ice-cream." Ben suggests.

" _What_?" Fett scowls. 

Ben smirks. "Take her out for ice-cream. Buy her a new blaster. Cook something she likes. It becomes very difficult to be rebellious and commit attempted murder when you feel _guilty_ about it."

" _You - you're telling me to_ guilt trip _her into being less of a pain in the ass_?" Fett repeats, for clarity. He looks incredulous, and then, well, contemplative.

"Kindness can be far sharper a tool than cruelty." Ben nods. "And...she has had very little kindness in her life of late. You could try treating her more like a child and less like a threat."

" _She is_ not _a child and she_ is _a threat_."

"She's _your_ child." Ben reminds him, not addressing the second half, because, well, Fett slept with his door locked for _very_ good reason. "In which case her age is irrelevant."

Fett looks dubious, but he nods. "I _'ll take that into consideration. What about yours_?"

"My what?"

" _Your child_." Fett rpompts.

"Obi-Wan is not my _child_." Ben protests. "And he's doing well, though i'm not sure how much credit I can take for that."

" _I'll trade you_." Fett offers.

"Not on your life." Ben grins.


	4. Rain

“Fekking rain.” Boil mutters, stepping out from the nominal protection of their temporary shelter.

“I kinda like it.” Oddball says, helmet tipped up, the torrential downpour sluicing through the grooves. “Makes me nostalgic for Kamino.”

“Not to agree with this idiot –“ Waxer comments.

“ _Oi_!”

“ – but I’m inclined to agree. At least the rains of Kamino didn’t make _mud_.”

“You can’t get mud if you don’t have dirt.” Another _vod_ says. “Personally, I like dirt. Solid ground.”

“Brother, if you didn’t have a name, that would earn you Mudball, right there.”

“Somebody’s gonna be Mudball by the end of this.” Boil mutters, slipping and catching himself on Waxer’s shoulder, making a grunt of dismay when they both end up spattered. “We’ve got enough shinies.”

“ _Kriff_ it’s cold.” Another trooper mutters, bouncing from foot to foot to try and warm up. “Can we get off this miserable-“

“Sir.” Cody barks, and the troops snap to attention as General Kenobi comes trudging back down from the ridge, which was the only spot they could get clear communications with the other ground forces at the moment.

“Gentlemen.” The general nods, offering a smile.

They, in their armor, are perhaps uncomfortably damp.

The general is fucking _soaked_ , clothes streaming wet, hair plastered to his forehead, muddied boots sloshing, full of water to the brim.

“Sir… you look miserable.” Cody says, as the general attempts to push his hair back, only to have the rain immediately force it down over his brow again.

“Do I?” The general smirks. “My apologies, I’ll endeavor to look less so.”

Cody scowls, and he knows Kenobi knows it even if he can’t see it, because the man’s smirk gets a little wider.

“Good news – the Separatists have decided to surrender the planet. Our assault will no longer be necessary.”

“That’s great, sir. Perhaps you’d like to go inside.” Cody tries again, gesturing to the shelter with a bit more emphasis.

“I’m quite alright, Cody.” General Kenobi declines, shifting one of his feet distractingly until – yep, a frog comes out of his boot. Lovely. “Far be it from me to complain about a bit of brisk rain – I’m sure it’s nothing compared to what you grew up with.”

“Hardly a drizzle, sir.” Waxer remarks, earning a punch in the back from Boil.

“No complaints here, sir.” Oddball replies, coughing to draw attention while Waxer and Boil sort themselves out. “But I doubt you get much foul weather on Coruscant.”

“Ah, no.” The general agrees amicably. “So I must say, your remarkable good humor in such inclement conditions is certainly _inspiring_.”

Inside his helmet, Cody sighs, watching his troops shift awkwardly, and steps up beside the general. “In that case, general.” He gestures for Kenobi to lead the way, falling into step.

Once they’re out of earshot, he tilts his bucket towards his commander. “Very funny, sir.”

Kenobi puffs a laugh, his breath making steam, and shivers, shoving his hands under his arms as he walks. “Hardly, but it should cut down on how miserable they attempt to make themselves for however long it takes us to get everything back about the ships. It _is_ only rain.” He comments. “There could be far worse things coming down on our heads.” He mutters, and slips.

Cody tries to catch him, he really does.

He regrets it, because the general just takes him down too.

~*~

Shmi wakes suddenly, with a pounding heart, to see a silhouette looming in the doorway of her room, and _who came in, where is Anakin_ -

“Shmi?”

Shmi breathes and sits up quickly, the hilt of her vibroblade sliding down the covers- she must have been holding it in her sleep, and Anakin was just beside her, still oblivious to the world.

She is not on Tatooine. She is free. They are both free, and the shape in the door to their room is only Ben, looking very apologetic from the other side of the threshold.

“Is something wrong?” Shmi asks quietly, carding her fingers through her sons soft hair, willing her blood to calm. Ben takes great care not to push any boundaries; he’s never entered her room, and even instances such as this, where he comes to knock on the door when it is closed, are rare.

Shmi is still uncertain of her place here, and she worries.

“My apologies, nothing’s the matter.” He replies, tucking a loose lock of hair back behind his ear. He’s a lovely looking man, Shmi supposes, but he still seems too thin for his frame, and the lines around his eyes speak of pain. She wonders what his stories are, that put that look in his eyes, but she cannot yet bring herself to ask. He respects her boundaries, offers her an agency she has never had before. She will respect his. “There was only something I wished to show you.”

“Should I wake Anakin?”

He lifts a brow, and the humor that lights his eyes changes everything about his face. “Only if you really wish to. It is still – _very_ early.”

And Anakin, once awake, would not easily go back to sleep.

“It won’t take long.” Ben promises.

Shmi nods, and he moves away, the door closing automatically, and Shmi changes into day clothes quickly, wrapping the blankets around Anakin to keep her warmth in them.

There is so much space in the Temple, and Shmi still marvels as the scale of it, far beyond any abode Gardulla had ever had, full of air and light and peace. It still felt a touch cold, to Shmi, who draws her shawl around her shoulders, but that would fade with time, and the memory of Tatooine’s two suns.

Ben leads her down into the gardens, and Shmi still marvels to hear the babble of running water, to taste the greenery and moisture in the air, but this morning, in the dim light of the dawn cycle, something feel different, heavier, almost.

He leads her towards a small hill, with a gnarled tree at the top, and pulls off his boots, stepping barefoot onto the grass. Shmi purses her lips, brow furrowed, but imitates him.

“Another few minutes or so.” He says vaguely, and Shmi wonders what he’s waiting for. “Would you like to meditate with me?”

They settle down onto the grass, and it tickles and itches and it’s marvelous anyways, so brightly green and delicate and _living_ beneath her fingertips. They sit knee to knee, and when he lays his palms open, she rests her hands over his.

They are almost entirely alone in the whole Room of a Thousand Fountains, at this early hour, and Shmi allows herself to relax, to, for a moment, just be – no hiding, no worrying, no waiting in tense expectation that she might be found, might be berated, might be hurt, and then what would happen to her son-

Just _be_.

Anakin is asleep, healthy and safe.

She flinches, when something drops down on her head, a small bolt of cold, and then it trickles, and she reaches up in fright, certain she must be bleeding even though it did not hurt-

Her fingers come away wet, but clear. It was only water.

She looks up, as a drumming, dripping sound cascades down the room, and another drop strikes her hair, her cheek, her chin, her shoulders, and they fall and they fall. Shmi doesn’t know how she gets from sitting to standing, but she holds her hands up, and lets the rain drum on her fingertips.

 _Rain_. Shmi thinks, marveling, _this is rain_.

It plasters down her hair, and her clothes, beading on her skin. It’s colder than she thought it would be, and it’s brilliant, and it’s beautiful.

Shmi can feel awe and joy tangle up in her chest, and she laughs, and looks down at Ben, to find him smiling, face titled up, eyes closed. He looks serene.

Her eyes sting. Salt mixes with fresh water, and her cheeks ache with a smile as she steps back and turns, watching it drum into fountains and ponds, watching it bounce in the grass, and dance off the leaves of the tree.

Shmi steps down the small grassy knoll they’ve settled on, and her feet come in contact with wetted stone, coarse and damp and different. She wiggles her toes, and then steps back into the grass, which smooshes beneath her weight, and seeps mud.

She shakes her skirts, weighted with water, and accidentally casts the excess right into Ben, who sputters a little, opening his eyes.

For the first time that she can ever remember, an apology is not the first thing to her lips. She laughs at him, before apologetically covering her mouth. The rain is chilling, but her skin feels like it’s on fire, flush with jubilation, and Shmi feels alive.

Rain. This is rain.

For the second time, because of Ben, she weeps, and she’s glad of the tears.

~*~

Jango stares in utter consternation at the water showering down in front of him, and disappearing through the metal grating beneath.

“It’s raining in my ship.” He mutters. “Why is it raining in my fucking ship?” He asks slightly louder, and then; “Bo- _Katan_!”

She drops down the access at the other end of the corridor, sans armor, her bodysuit peeled to the waist in a sleeveless shirt, revealing angry red scalds up and down her arms and – _ice_? Clinging in her hair. Her pants are soaked, and she’s barefoot.

She glowers at him murderously. “I’m trying to fix it.”

Jango clenches his jaw, which he hopes makes him look just as angry.

She’s frustrated, damp, and just happens to look like she’s twelve, and not eighteen. Twelve, and kind of adorable. Like a cranky loth-cat.

He reaches up, nominally to take off his helmet and _actually_ to fix the viewer and snap a holo-pic _as_ he takes it off, because, well, _because_.

She’s very persistent in making sure to remind him (and herself) that she hates his guts, so he needs to hold on to moments like these, where he actually feels fond of the little hell-cat, so he doesn’t shoot her the next time she goes for his throat or deliberately pisses off his contacts.

First thing in the morning she’s usually broiling with righteous anger and a venomous, violent temper, and by the end of the day she reaches a sort of sullen acceptance. And then the cycle turns, and they start all over again. Slowly, day by day, the anger cools faster, her acceptance a little less begrudging.

“Fix what, exactly?” He asks flatly, leveling her with a _look_.

“The hydro system.” She cuts out, like he’s an idiot. Jango lifts a brow. She sets her jaw mulishly. “The valve seal on the pressure recycler blew out, and the thermo-regulator on the water cabling is busted.”

“And how, exactly, did that happen?”

“I was trying to figure out what was wrong with the pressure recycler.”

“That’s not even attached to the thermo-regulator.” Jango points out.

“I got mad.” She growls.

He smirks as she finally comes around to it, and he shakes his head. “Of course you did.” He mutters, edging around the rainfall coming down from above and pointing her to go back up so he can follow.

“What was wrong with the pressure recycler?” He asks, as she stomps back up the access.

“I hadn’t get that far.” She snaps. “I was a little occupied trying to keep this stupid ship from flooding.”

“I meant,” Jango says shortly, unfastening his pauldrons and vambraces and dropping them in his helmet in preparation for crawling in small spaces. “ why were you messing with it?”

“Because the water pressure in the refresher keeps bottoming out and the tap gurgles.” She says scathingly, kicking a panel aside and crawling into the maintenance junction.

He…had noticed that, actually.

“Fair enough.” He admits, and lowers himself, pausing before following to make sure she wasn’t about to pull a vibroblade or a blaster on him, but, to be fair, he didn’t expect her to set up quite so dramatic and showy a ruse just to lure him into an ambush. She was straightforward in her attacks, at least.

She slides under a pipe as Jango scoots himself into the junction, and Jango can see that the cover panel for the thermo-regulator is dented where it’s been set aside, and the circuits underneath are cracked, loose connections sparking and the settings fluctuating and spiking wildly, which explained the ice and the scalding. He’s pissed to see it, because he doesn’t have spares for the circuits, but he buries it down, as he can hardly lecture her on fits of temper when she saw him lose his shit when he accidentally activated – and then could not deactivate - the auto-pursuit function and punch the console, cracking one of the status displays.

“I turned the hydro-pump off.” She says, glowering at the valve still sluggishly spewing water.

“Before or after the leak?”

She turns her glower on him, but her face colors. “After.”

Jango grunts, feeling she’s learned that lesson without him banging her bucket on it. “Then it’s still got all the water in the line and in the recycler to drain.” Most of which appeared to already be flooding the passageway beneath them. He lays down on his side to get a better look at the recycler’s controls, resigned to the water soaking into his shirt. There wasn’t much to do now but let the thing drain.

“Did you purge this?”

“I tried to.”

With the hydro-pump still on, but that still wouldn’t have created enough pressure to rupture the seal unless… He rolls a little, checking the diverter switches over her shoulder. He points.

“I opened them all to the flush tank.” She says defensively. “I’m not an idiot.”

Jango has to think for a minute. “Did you unlock the overflow release?”

She hesitates.

“No.”

Jango grimaces, and nods. She sulks.

He crawls out and goes down to the hold, where the waste system controls are, unlocks the release, pausing to listen and make sure it was draining before he fetches a valve replacement and goes back up.

He crawls back in the junction, the water a pathetic dribble now, and helps Bo-Katan remove and replace the seal.

“Alright, try purging it now.” He says, when he’s satisfied.

It cycles with a whirring tone, and a gritty gargling sound as the pressure recycler purges, and the purge cylinder finally pops down, indicating that the recycler’s tank is empty.

Bo-Katan pops the cylinder, looks inside, and her lip curls. She passes it to Jango, who sighs.

It’s paint. Precisely, it’s a soggy, matted mass of familiar blue and black paint chips.

“Well, shite.” Jango mutters.


	5. Echoes

Mace is slipping in and out of the Vapaad, still reluctant to use the full force of the technique in a spar, when it felt like cheating – but kriffing hells – Naasade didn’t even seem to waver, still matching him blade for blade. Sweat beaded on the other mans brow, and Mace could feel it rolling down his spine.

“C’mon, Mace. You’re better than this!” Naasade teases, pushing him harder, and Mace has to stay _focused_. Naasade’s blade work is incredible – the subtle pushes and pulls and distractions he’s pulling off with the Force even more so, and if Mace isn’t careful, is Naasade gets the slightest leverage in the Force, he’ll win.

Mace growls, and lets his anger rise, lets himself flow into the Vapaad, riding the faintest glint of light on the blade of darkness. His body relaxes, his motions smoother, quicker, stronger, pulling further and further ahead of the moment, acting on what comes next, as opposed to reacting to what is happening _now_.

“Better.” Ben’s blue eyes gleam brightly, as he twirls his blade in a wheel of light. “Not yet your best.” He flashes another wicked grin and dives in with his singing violet-hued copper blade, snapping and sparking against Mace’s own purple saber, and he dives in, and he dives in.

Vapaad has one real weakness – it relies on incredible speed and draw in the Force, both of which inherently require a certain measure of maneuverable room – in other words: personal space. Naasade presses and presses and presses, aggressively forcing his way inside Mace’s guard, forcing Mace to retreat, and the man keeps coming. Mace leans more deeply on the Force, until he is less flesh and sweat and saber and more purely focused intent –

And Naasade just keeps coming, his own presence in the Force building and building, like a howling storm just barely made mortal, slamming and whipping and screaming around his defenses, so loud it was _silent_ in Mace’s ears.

 _I am a kriffing Councilor of the fripping Jedi Order – I am not going to be_ _beaten by some half-mad time-travelling hermit from the other end of the galaxy_. Mace growls to himself, throwing everything that he is at the other man and stumbling when the storm-front breaks, and his charge actually throws Ben off his feet.

“Oh kark!” Mace swears, stumbling back into wobbly muscle and sweat-damp skin, deactivating his saber and rushing over to the other man with a slightly unsteady gait. Naasade presses one hand against his shoulder, where his guard had faltered and the sabers had seared him when Mace pushed him off his feet, and he’s shaking. “I’m so sorry, Master Naasa-“

Mace falters, because Ben’s shoulders are shaking with breathless little exhausted laughs, and the man’s head tilts up, eyes dancing, radiating pure _satisfied-challenged-happy_ in the Force, which pours through the room all bright and invigorating, and a few other sparring knights and master’s glance their way with little smiles and half-grins, caught up in the emotion.

“There it is, Mace.” The man smiles up at him charmingly, reaching out to accept help up and all but bouncing to his feet when he gets it. “Took you long enough.” He smooths back his hair and sighs with pleased affection, all relaxed in body and absolutely luminous in the Force, expanding out from himself like solar flares, warm and brilliant.

Naasade catches him looking with a twinkle in his eye and a smirking raised brow, too familiar and full of expectation – like a lifelong friend.

 _He’s not looking at me_. Mace realizes, with a pang of remorse. Mace wants to be friends with this man, to earn the respect and companionship he’s offering at this moment to the memory of who Mace was-and-could-be. He’s trying. He’s resentful, sometimes, that Naasade knows him so well, and Mace - Mace knows the other man so little, but it’s the moments like these, where he sees the man Naasade could be-

No, the man Naasade _was_ , before.

Mace gets so wrapped up – they all do, he thinks – in what Ben Naasade represents; time-travel and the Sith and the end of the Jedi - that he often overlooks the fact that Naasade is also simply a man, a human being.

It’s these moment that clear his head, and his heart, that make him more determined than ever to navigate these strange waters, to accept what he once believed he could not fathom, to find greater whole of the man who was, otherwise, an elusive and entirely frustrating headache-inducing enigma, so that Mace can meet him properly.

Because, he understands, abstractly, that he and Ben Naasade were once very good friends.

And Mace, here and now, would like to discover if, in their case, that can still hold true. Because, if he is rewarded with moment like these, with respect and comradery so deep and enduring as he sees in that easy grin and bright-sharp gaze - then he would very much like it to.

~*~

Shmi slips back into her quarters quietly, reaching up to pull her hair free of the bun she kept it in, considering, once again, just cutting it off. A traditional padawan cut, she thinks, would not be _so_ bad. But her hair was, perhaps, her one vanity, and she could not quite bring herself to do it just for a small convenience.

She intends to head right to her room for a change of clothes and then to the refresher, hoping to ease the tense muscles in her neck and shoulders and feel a bit more revitalized before collecting the boys, but she reaches the curtain-cloistered living area, and encounters a foot first. A male foot, which leads under a throw blankets to an actual man – Ben, passed out on the cushions, with Anakin sprawled across him chest and Jax curled up under one arm.

It seems she will not need to collect the boys.

Shmi smiles, and reaches into her satchel for a holocorder, taking a scan to save the picture. Se smiles, and tip-toes past them to her room, pushing aside the curtain over her door. She hangs her satchel on a hook by the door, and sets the camcorder on one of the shelves above her bed, too high for the boys to reach. Shmi has very few belongings aside form her clothes, but a few personal datapads and model-sized pieces of machinery adorn her shelves, along with a couple of tiny potted plants, a sewing kit, and a small box of japoor snippets she hadn’t yet decided what to make of. Her prize possession, however, is the holodisk Master Yaddle had given her, to her immense surprise, on which she stored all of the holopics she could take of the boys, and their friends, and her friends too, which projected them on display.

Shmi settles for a change of clothes and a heat patch before slipping back out of her room, glancing at the chrono to tell the time, and deciding she could probably let the trio sleep for another half hour or so.

Anakin, it seemed, had other ideas. “Amu?” He shifts, his blonde head coming up, and then just sort of slides off the Jedi Master he was using as a cot and scampers over to her. Ben shifts in his sleep, frowning, and rolls onto his side, wrapping his other arm around Jax too.

“You wore him out today.” Shmi remarks, pulling her still half-asleep son into her lap. Anakin looks up at her, blinking blue eyes sleepily. “I hope you weren’t too much trouble?”

She’s watched Ben entertain Anakin and his friends before, mock fighting with youngling’s practice sabers, always playing the bad guy when they sparred – and always letting Anakin win.

She worries, on occasion, about how much of a distraction Anakin can be, and if the Jedi will rebuke her for it if it proves to be too much. Even with all the recent changes, there are still many who are leery of her and her sons unusual status, and some who still outright disapprove.

“I was good.” Anakin mumbles petulantly, defending himself. “Promise, Amu.”

She smooths back his hair. Anakin preens, but looks back at Ben as he snuggles against his mother. “He was missing me.” Anakin says.

“Then I am glad he got to spend time with you.” Shmi murmurs. “And you with him.”

“Not me, Amu.” Anakin squirms. “The other one.”

Shmi pauses, her fingers in her sons hair, and glances at Ben, but his face remains slack, his sleep undisturbed. She had noticed, from the beginning, that Ben would sometimes call her son by a different name – Luke. He has not made the mistake in some time, but she remembers, and she has seen him with children, compared to many of his fellow Jedi.

Jedi as a whole, like children. But liking a child is not the same as knowing how to rear one, and Ben, she has seen, knows how to rear a young child. She believes he has raised one, and, she believes, he has lost one.

 _He would have been a good father_ , Shmi thinks, not for the first time, and she is sorry for him.

She wonders, often, about the man who came wandering out of the desert to stumble over her, of all the slaves of Tatooine, and her son, who he looked at like he had seen a ghost. He is a very different man today, sleeping on the floor with a little boy in his arms, less fragile, less beaten by the world, but he is still not a man who is whole within himself. She tries to imagine him, with that little boy he saw in Anakin swaddled in his arms, tries to imagine him in love, tries to imagine him as a man free of himself.

It would be beautiful, Shmi thinks, and more than any of them perhaps have a right to see.

But she can’t imagine it, as if even in dreams he is denied that chance.

“Amu, please don’t be sad.” Anakin murmurs. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong, Ani.” Shmi kisses his brow. “I was only thinking.”

“About Ben?”

“Yes.”

“Ben is sad.” Anakin says.

“I know.” Shmi nods, holding her son close, relishing that he is here and he is hers. “I know.”

“Can we help him?” Anakin asks sincerely. “I want to help him, Amu.”

Shm sighs softly into his hair, grateful that he is such a _good_ child. “We can only try.”


End file.
